Mr A
by IcarusIscariot
Summary: .:There is a plan/massacre ready in/behind her eyes and war written (scared) across her skin; she is above this – honor, who would need such a thing?:. Hermione makes a deal with Crowley; the price is much more than her soul. Sometimes heroes don't get happy endings.


**Title:** Mr. A  
><strong>Author:<strong> IcarusIscariot  
><strong>Categories:<strong> Action, Supernatural, Romance, Angst, Tragedy  
><strong>CharactersPairing:** Hermione Granger/Crowley with barely there Castiel/Hermione; Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, a few OC fillers, Crowley, Meg, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Jo Harvelle, Ellen Harvelle, Castiel, Gabriel, Michael, Lucifer, Lilith, several other angels/demons/monsters  
><strong>Summary:<strong> .:There is a plan/massacre ready in/behind her eyes and war written (scared) across her skin; she is above this – honor, who would need such a thing?:. Hermione makes a deal with Crowley; the price is much more than her soul. Sometimes heroes don't get happy endings.  
><strong>Beta:<strong> None – my last BETA bailed on me, so I'm looking for one at the moment.  
><strong>Rated:<strong> M  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Mentions of violence; death of major and secondary character; strong language; Implied sex; Actual lemons/limes; descriptions of torture/death in later chapters; Sam/Dean codependency, border-line incestial behavior in some cases  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own Harry Potter nor do I own Supernatural. I just enjoy taking it out of the book/TV and playing with the characters.  
><strong>Time Line + Notes<strong>: SPN S4 AU; Dates may be fudged slightly; Canon compliant; Angels tweaked a little; Crowley caught wind of the Apocalypse early and took the proper precautions to assure his survival  
>B7 HP AUEWE; Ron, Ginny and the Weasley twins – I don't kill them off every fic I write, I _swear_ – I only killed George, because I can't emotionally deal with Fred dying without George; Powerful witches/wizards can see angel wings; Femme Fatale!Hermione, Gun Wielding!Hermione and Morally Ambiguous!Hermione

**A/N**: I write things other than SPN/HP x-overs; I swear.  
>I just needed a little break from "Laying with Lions" – which I've actually have planned out to be anywhere from 30-45 chapters, it honestly depends if I decide to go with a slow burn, which I probably will, or a faster paced story. <p>

Also, since Hannibal's personality is actually quite hard to write, I've decided to keep the Hannibal/Hermione fic in planning until I work out the kinks.  
>So far I've decided that I want <em>Hermione and Hannibal to have attended the same college and afterwards, they kept in touch<em>.  
>The idea may still seem rough around the edges and maybe un-thought out, but… It seems to be one of the best ways to go about giving them a reason to interact with each other on a casualfriendly basis. I also played with the idea of having Hermione as a vegetarian, but, naturally, I promptly tossed that out the window.  
>Other than that I wanted to play with a Hannibal AU, but I decided people probably wanted to see me blend the already premade worlds seamlessly, or attempt so.<p>

The prompt for this story was from an anon on my tumblr. (I decided no the publish the ask, so I didn't lose it, ahaha /shot)  
>She wanted my CrowleyHermione fic to include the phase, "You can't buy someone's love. Even if you sell your soul" I liked it, so I decided to use it. (Also, guys you can totally send me prompts and I'll see what I can do, I need all the practice I can get when it comes to writing.)  
>This seemed to be a rather easy fic to write while I'm doing the other, since I probably won't put so much effort into building a sublime reality with it, so I won't be dealing with bloodlines and angelic histories in this one like I am in "Laying with Lions."<br>Crowley will just be his loveable self who happened to catch wind of the Apocalypse a bit earlier than in canon and planned accordingly.  
>Also, gun wielding Hermione is best Hermione. uvu** (I love superheroes, like with actually powers, who use modern weaponry as well, this adoration translates well to Hermione.)<br>Also, Femme Fatale!Hermione a tad, well… _a lot_ – mascara tubes hiding very small poison dipped daggers, heels doubling as blades, kisses that reek of gunpowder and blood, nails sharp enough to rip out a man's eyes, etc, that sort of thing. Check my profile for more info on the Femme Fatale trope, if you want, anyway. c:

I went about this pairing pretty bare bones, Hermione sells soul to Crowley – run of the mill stuff.  
>Regardless, enjoy!<p>

* * *

><p>. ... .. . <strong>Chapter One<strong> – _Coffee and Peaches_ . .. ... .

* * *

><p>"<em>I think I've known for awhile." His eyes slowly traveled from the destroyed stones of the ground to meet her steady gaze, "And I think you have too."<em>

_Hermione quickly diverted her eyes towards the same pile of ruble Harry had observed idly moments ago; he's right, she had known for a _long_ while. Her side is bleeding and there's gash over her left eye. The blood flows freely over her eye, making it nearly impossible to see, but she doesn't mind. The feeling is rather good, because having a single working eye makes it harder to notice the blurring and misting of forming tears._

_She doesn't want to have to make this decision; she doesn't want him to go._

_Hermione had already sold her soul, quite literally, for him and he was suggesting – no, she couldn't think about it. She needs to be rational about this, logical and precise, her emotions should play little to no part in this decision. He has to go._

_She really doesn't want him to, but he has to._

_With her blurred eyesight she takes in the sight of the dust surrounding them, the school is in ruins. The motes of grime and filth shimmer in the light of the sun, or maybe it's the moon. The stars would be nice; something to verify how long the battle has lasted thus far. She really would prefer to see something beautiful, something _magnificent_; something to show her that she isn't dead and the world will carry on as it always will._

_And if she _is_ in fact dead, Hermione thinks, she needs for someone to get something more than galleons for her burial - which they won't be getting anyway, she remembers suddenly, because her will specifies a pyre rather than a classic funeral._

_If she is dead she hopes, in a very innate, intimate way, to be sacrifice for something fucking noble - she needs to be a mart –_

_Then her thoughts stop as her eyes wander back to Harry's, his emerald eyes sparkle with fear or unshed tears, she can't be sure. She throws her arms around the boy in front of her._

_His steadfast and bravery have captivated her; she thinks back to a terrifying room of flying keys and dark fire, his courage enamored her even then. Years flashed in her mind as her grip tightened._

_Ron is different from her; he would not die by the side two best friends – not because he didn't love them enough to, but rather because Ron loves _everyone_. His family means too much to part with, his friends and classmates are terrified, and Ron, lovely Ron, would never, could never leave them falling apart like that. Hermione is no fool, she understands that he will always choose his family and friends over Harry and Hermione, but neither of them is bitter over the fact. They understand completely why._

_Harry is also different from her; he would rather die alone than allow either of his friends to pass on, simply because he loves the two of them too damn much._

_Hermione, however, would prefer to die beside either one of her best friends; she doesn't want to die alone. Her parents are dead and her brother doesn't care enough to realize she hasn't been home since third year. She adores the Weasleys, she really does, she sees them as family and her loyalty to her friends and classmates is unquestionable. (Even though they teased her for years, believed the rumors Rita Skitter spread and never cared to recall her name, because she firmly believed: They deserved to live regardless.) Hermione likes many people, but she only loves two – Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter. _

_Selfishly she hopes, wishes, begs, prays to every deity she knows, that if it ever comes down to it, she'll die holding the hand of one of them. So they can walk to heaven hand in hand and when the last member of the trio finally joins them, they'll walk into the depths of the unknown together. _

"_I'll go with you."_

-Break-

. .. … .. .

-Break-

Waking suddenly, Hermione jumped upwards in her bed at the sound of her alarm. Blinking in quick succession to remove the traces of sleep from her eyes, she turned to look at her Hazelnut wand on the night stand. The wand buzzed loudly and overhead proclaimed, in mellow green, "7:00 a.m." Grabbing her wand, the alarm shut off, Hermione stood gingerly from her comfortable bed and slipped her fluffy robe over her loose pajamas.

Today was the day.

She could feel it in her very bones.

She ran a hand through her wild curls as she stumbled out of her dark room into the scarcely lit hall way. Too tired to function without coffee and too awake to go back to bed, she forced herself onwards; it was times like these that Hermione cursed he desire to wake up with the sun every morning. It was over rated in mornings like these.

Staggering into her the modest sized kitchen of her cottage, she walked over to the black coffee marker. She poured the appropriate amount of water into the reservoir before spooning coffee grounds into the filter. Flipping the button on, the machine gurgled to life and slowly began to produce the hot brew.

She sat at the small table in the adjoining dining room; looking over the room, Hermione attempted to memorize the shape and the interior of the room as she may not see it again after today.

The walls had been painted a dark, rather dull red; Hermione loved her former house colors, but found bright red too bold for her walls. The floors had been a simple wooden number that matched the wood of her new wand: Hazelnut. The walls held a sparse amount of relatively small windows when compared to the size of the ones in her sitting room. The walls were bare aside from one photograph that hung across the room from where she usually ate at the table.

The photograph had been taken by an enthusiastic Collin, early during her sixth year, it displayed a loop of Hermione, Harry and Ron curled around each other, like puppies, in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione lounged lazily between the two boys, her head against Harry's shoulder and her legs across Ron's lap, not that either were particularly bothered by her actions as they were too caught up in their conversation to pay her much mind. Hermione, on the other hand, had a huge tomb in her hands that she was continuously flipping pages inside as she quickly finished them. In the backdrop of the picture was Lavender and Parvati who had taken over the two arm chairs to left, both were leaned towards each other, enamored with what the other had to say. Seamus, Neville and Dean could be seen in the far right of the common room, playing exploding snap while Oliver and Cormac were playing chess not far from them. Ginny and Fay Dunbar were clearly studying not far behind Hermione's two ex-roommates.

Hermione adored the picture.

Occasionally, when life got too hard and she wondered why she continued on with the pathetic charade of a life, she would look at the piece and remember: They're why.

Over half of the people in the photo had not been given the chance to live past their school years… and since most of her friends would never get the option to waste theirs, why should she?

Lately, though, as her time grew shorter and shorter she'd look at the picture and focus intently on Harry's face and ponder what they almost had.

Hermione did not know at the time, but you cannot buy someone's love.

Even if you sell your _soul_.

She had been so close; she almost had had his love, it had been within her grasp. Yet, it floundered like a caught fish before falling back into the river with his fellow fish.

Still, almost is a word that had Hermione now associates with a rather strange feeling she could never quite pinpoint, but now she knew it was something akin to heartache. Almost is quite horrible, really.

Hermione watches the cloud cover from the thick-glassed windows of her modestly sized home with a small frown marring her pretty features. The only sound that could be heard was the rustle of wind and the gurgle of her coffee-maker, it was in moments like these that Hermione felt, truly _felt_, the comforting touch of her friends, covering her comfortingly like a blanket of emotions. It was also times like these when Hermione would remember, vividly and wholly, just how _awful_ almost really is.

Almost was failing to save Fred by a mere three minutes; almost was finding the still warm body of your mother and your barely breathing father on the floor of your childhood home. Almost is not being able to pull Ginny away from a curse fast enough; almost was conjuring the shield two seconds late and losing Ron to Bellatrix Lestrange's wand.

Almost was twinning your hands within your best friend's as you pull him into an embrace – it's when all you can do it _remember _that warmth as you watch him destroy himself from the inside out. Almost is when you close your eyes and know, instinctively, that when he returns, he will never be yours any longer.

Almost is still hoping, somewhere, that he _might_ be.

Almost, was _seeing_ and _acknowledging_ that you could have done everything a _little_ better, that you could have _saved_ them _all_. Almost is giving your soul for him; its watching emerald eyes become warm at the sight of you and then suddenly, he turns his gaze in favor of another and in that moment you realize you've become _nothing_ to him.

And yet, Hermione could never stop herself from reliving the past memories.

She was a masochist.

And Harry had _almost_ loved her for it.

Hermione couldn't blame him, she was broken; love was too over whelming and dependency, exhausting and she just _couldn't_ do it, couldn't give him what he so desperately needed. What she wanted to give him – she simply could not find it in herself to do.

Almost is an odd place to be left, she concluded, it was the state between waking from a dream and hazing back into reality. Nothing seemed _real_. Quite frankly it left her _wishing_ for more. It leaves Hermione craving something that would/could/should have been; something horrible and painfully true, something that pushes her over edge onto either side. It leaves her wanting the _destruction_ of the paper thin bar she's walking and allowing her to finally fall into the abyss of sweet madness and release. It makes her wish things had gone differently.

Hermione Jean Granger had _almost_ had a happy ever after.

She almost had Harry Potter.

Harry Potter almost _loved_ her and she _almost_ loved him back.

But almost is never a guarantee, never for certain; they were never over that edge of fear and questioning, always wondering if they would lose one another. Occasionally, Hermione wishes that their _almost_ had become a _reality_, that somehow their love would have _fixed_ her. That she could have allowed her regret to melt away and that Harry had left his angst at the door.

But that had not happened; instead Harry had married Susan Bones, Hermione would know, she was Harry's "woman of honour" – it was quite rude, in her opinion, asking your ex-girlfriend to act as your best man at your wedding. Regardless, she had accepted, unable to rid herself from Harry completely, much to the aggravation of Susan.

Regardless, here she sits, alone, a member of a scattered family.

Hermione is suffocating in her _stupid_ actions and breathing in the bitterness for everything life _never_ was – she was promised happiness after the war, where was her fucking happiness?

She is a veteran of broken ties and fairy tales – Harry was just so disappointing. Disappointing: in emotional connection – with Ginny and Ron gone, he had cut himself off – too broken and too used to be abandoned to be very open.

Hermione is the one only one left behind, still staring in astonishment and fury in an empty kitchen with a framed picture of children who had long since _died_. Brutally. Horribly.

Tapping her fingers lightly against the counter top, Hermione reined in her desire to pace the room in frustration. She could not be lingering on the past.

After all, today was the day.

It had been all in order to save Harry's life from an almost fatal wound to the chest, but she had been so helpless – so unable to fix the punctured flesh.

_Pressing her hands against his chest, tears began to blur her vision; she couldn't stop the blood, not at the rate it was pouring from his gaping chest. _

_Hermione knew healing magic and she knew it well, but she was no miracle worker. Hermione, before the hunt, had taken to learning everything she possibly could: healing magic, runic tracks, charms to warn off bears and even an astounding amount of dark arts. Yet, for all her knowledge, fixing this injury was simple _beyond_ her._

_Applying more pressure to the wound, Hermione acknowledged that the action would not keep him alive for very long, but she lacked she both the ability to transport him or the necessary potions._

_He was going to die, she knew this, but she wouldn't – couldn't – give up on him._

_She was shamefully dependent on the green eyed wizard._

_She literally could never give up on Harry._

Hermione grimaced at the particularly gruesome memory. No one knew about her deal, not even Harry; it was her secret to keep.

_Sensing herself no longer alone, Hermione twisted her body to see behind her while keeping her hands planted on the gaping wound. The blood stained her striped gloves a terrible reddish hue – she'd never get the blood out, not that it particularly matter in the big picture of things._

_Training her eyes on the intruder, Hermione noticed right away that it was a man. He was probably barely a half a foot taller than her; he looked to be in his late-thirties to mid-forties. He droned a black coat that fell to his knees with an equally black pair of slacks and dress shirt, with a steely-grey tie. If not for her friend slowly dying beneath her hands, she would stop to appreciate the attractive appeal of his features, but she honestly had no time for such frivolities at the moment._

_Her breathing halted as the moon glinted off her eyes, igniting his eyes with a flash of red. Apprehension running through her veins thickly, she removed one hand from her nearly dead friend and pointed her vine wood wand at him and glared, but thankfully did not do anything too rash._

"_Hello, love, very sorry for the delay," he drawled as he looked at her appraisingly. "Arranging this without tipping off the bosses, was a tad difficult – Azazel, of course, is too obsessed with those Winchesters brats to particularly care about my movements, but the bitch-witch is a bit more observant."_

_Breathing in hard, Hermione racked her brain until she came up with the answer: Demon._

_Fuck._

_Her eyes widened and her throat filled with cotton, "Can – can you–"_

" –_save him?" he cut her off with his lazy drawl, "Why, yes, yes I can, but it will cost you."_

_Hermione paused and look down at the now dead body of her friend, he had passed on during their conversation. Her eyes filled with unshed tears and she raised her chin in acknowledgement. She would do anything for Harry; she'd kill thousand men if it would bring him back; her soul was a small price to pay for Harry's life._

"_I'll do anything, if you can bring him back."_

The terms of the deal were different than she read: Crowley, as he introduced himself after they had _sealed_ the deal, had not asked of her soul, but for something entirely different.

"_The price is quite simple: seven years," he circled her and Harry's body, reminding her of a predator stalking prey, which, she supposes, wasn't that far off mark. "When those seven years are up, I will come to you and you will work for me, as a human witch, no need to change species, of course, but you will vow your magic and loyalty to me and _only_ me."_

_Hermione paused for a moment to allow the implication sink in; was she really going to sell her soul and will to a demon? Yes, for Harry, she would._

"_I – I accept your terms."_

She had lost more than her soul that night in Godric's Hallow. Apparently, the purer the soul, the more required to seal such a deal and Harry's soul was oh-so-pure. Hermione had chalked it up to a learning experience, but she'd be lying if her mind hadn't went back to that night more times than she was willing to admit.

"_You'll need to remove your clothing to seal _this_ deal." The demon deliberately allowed his eyes to roam her body, lingering on her pants clad legs for a moment longer than necessary. Hermione's face flushed as his voice dropped to a rather provocative octave._

_Hermione flinched, "Is that necessary, I thought a kiss was all that was required."_

"_Boy wonder here is worth more than a ten year surgery carrier, love." At her furrowed brow, he elaborated, "To bring back such _pure _souls, such as his, from the dead, something _more_ is required."_

_Swallowing deeply, Hermione nodded in understanding as she began to unbutton the large fastens of her pea-coat with shaky, blood covered hands; wandlessly she applied a warming charm to the surrounding area causing the surrounding snow around her to melt away. She peeled away her jacket and began to button her shirt – hectically, she thinks: Why did she wear so many bloody buttons?_

"_I've never done _this_ before," she babbles needlessly and she pulled off her shirt and boots._

_Saying nothing, the demon's eyes glinted red and he squatted down to her level and allowed his fingertips to dance on the pale expanse of her exposed sternum and clavicle. _

_Her voice quivered as her mouth formed the only words that came to mind, it was an awkward jilt on her lips – a pause because the brightest witches of ages do not take part in such tomfoolery, but Hermione is the exception. "What should I call you?"_

"_Name's Crowley, love."_

Snapping out of her memories, Hermione stood and fixed herself a cup of the steamy coffee. She added three teaspoons of sugar and a dab of milk from her fridge. She had tried to avoid the memories for the past seven years.

Her time was up; she had already prepared her belongings. She had said her sparse goodbyes and had quit her job at the warding company she had been a partner at for a five years now. Hermione had told Harry that she was going abroad, she had told the remaining members of the Weasley family the same thing; the Patil twins were under the assumption that Hermione had met someone while on a business trip, Hermione hadn't bothered to correct them.

Catching sight of her digital wall clock, Hermione doesn't like analog clocks – they tick, tick, tick and tell her that Ron and Ginny and Fred are dead; tick tock now George, who will be next. Regardless, she looks at her clock – that, luckily, has no horrible fates written is flowing script telling her that her beloved friends are all dead or in St. Mugo's coma ward – and sees that it is barely twenty minutes since she had originally awoken.

Standing, Hermione walked over to the coffee maker with one thought clear in her mind: _today was going to be a long day_.


End file.
